Breakfast in Bed
by Pixieblade
Summary: Part 4 of the Tobacco Road Arc. 58-T-WS. A little fluff for the evening. I'm working on more stories for this arc as well.


**Breakfast in Bed**

Series: Saiyuki AU

Rating: T; Pairing: 58

AN: Tobacco Road Arc, pt. 4

Six year olds are an interesting breed of childhood innocence and adult prudishness. The first time Mao ran into the room, stared at us slack jawed, then blushed furiously and peeled back out of said room, the door quivering in its frame after her escape, we merely blinked rapidly and couldn't make eye contact with her for the rest of the week. The second time she did it we installed locks and made the pledge that nothing was going to happen before they were turned and double checked. The third time it happened, I sent Gojyo in to have a little 'talk' with our beautiful red-headed minx now, I'm terrified to admit, turned fangirl.

The first time Kai did it was the last time we did. It has now been 20,240 minutes since we were last together and quite frankly, I don't care anymore if they do see us. Forget it. Not my concern. We were going to have to have this talk anyways; granted I always figured we had another (hopefully) ten years, but whatever. So now I'm standing here in the living room watching Gojyo make the kids sandwiches and pour one chocolate and one strawberry milk drink, because _Lord Forbid,_ Kai drink something girly like strawberry (even though it is one of my favorites), and trying to figure out how to subtly kick our children to the curb for a few hours so that Mommy can have some much needed alone time with Daddy and…when the heck did I start talking like an idiot?

Pinching the bridge of my nose I try to muffle the sound of a sigh. It's easier without having to wear the glasses or my monocle anymore, but the glass eye still bothers me. It's always a challenge to overlay the two images my powers feed directly into my brain. The image is not very different, but the lack of true depth perception is annoying, especially since the shadows that show space and relationship between objects are replaced with the energy of that object; it was all very confusing in the beginning. After the fake eye was, well, _forced_ into my skull, God that sounds horrid, I spent the better part of two weeks locked up in the temple with Sanzo and Goku just trying to walk around without crashing into things. Playing 'tag' as Goku liked to call it, was a nightmare world of bruised shins and black eyes for almost a month.

And then I went home.

I must admit, seeing Gojyo's shocked face was completely worth asking Sanzo to keep my resurrection under wraps. Of course he's never been allowed to cut his own hair again, but that was kind of a given anyways. Looking at us then, I'd never have believed that over ten years later we would basically be married with twin, a real house with a garden and a café and all grown-up like. _Oh_, I better stop the laughing to myself -- Gojyo's got that confused look on his face that always means I'm starting to sound a bit crazy. Maybe I have. Not getting any in over two weeks will do that to a guy and him winking at me over Mai's little red-head is not helping.

There's a tapping at the front door as I stand to join them for lunch, though I'm not really hungry, "I'll get it."

Mrs. Peterson is one of our favorite clients. Not only does she send her oldest daughter in every morning for pastries, she watches the twins whenever we have to be away for a while. I'm noticeably excited to see her at our door.

"Mrs. Peterson, good afternoon. How are you today?"

The pleasantries are merely a requirement and I'm not really listening as she goes on and on about her son's latest achievement, something about a science faire in the next town for a week. I don't really care. She's just come to ask us to watch the house, and since I'm obviously not going to get the break I desperately want, I simply smile number 34, that's the 'oh fine, just leave me the list and go away' smile and somehow she gets the message and leaves. As I turn back to the kitchen and drop the keys on the side table I shake my head slightly at Gojyo's unasked question and smile ruefully as his face drops, expectation is running high between us and if we don't get some form of break soon we just might have to lock the kids in the backyard for a 'camp out' one night just to get some time alone.

I stop dead in my tracks. That doesn't sound like such a bad idea, but then I remember that they're only six and no matter how much I want to jump their father's bones, six is just too young to be left alone. I sigh again as I slide into my chair and pick at the bologna sandwich. I hate bologna. There's a soft rustle of cloth and then the warm weight of Gojyo's hands slip around my neck and the sandwich is picked up and replaced with another. This one is fried until crunchy and I smile, he remembered. Bologna is disgusting, but fried bologna is comfort food from back when Kanan was still around. Such a silly, simple little thing that reminds me once again why I fell in love with this man.

After lunch I send the kids upstairs to get their smocks on, Saturday is market day and they love coming with me to pick out the week's produce from the vendors, but oh my do they get so dirty! As they scamper back downstairs and I reach for the door Gojyo leans over and presses a soft, warm kiss onto the side of my mouth, stealing my breath as his touch always does and then leans down and ruffles the kid's hair. Waving from the front door as we head out and reminding us to have fun and take our time. Though I greatly enjoy my afternoons outside with the kids and the sights and sounds and feel of the market washing around us, I secretly want to run back to that house and drag Gojyo under the covers all while shutting everything and one out for at least two hours, maybe even longer.

But I have shopping to do.

It's almost dusk by the time we get back. I'm glad my hair isn't any longer or I'd probably be complaining about how it's hanging limply into my eyes and showing how tired I am. The kids are covered in mud and berry stains and I am so very glad I always insist on making them wear those bright yellow slickers when we go out. They, obligingly, drop them in a crumpled heap on the porch before tossing their boots down besides them and running through the house only to be stopped hard by Gojyo's warning voice in the hallway. I'm halfway out of my own boots when the bags are lifted from my arms and a light kiss is placed to my startled brow. Gojyo's in the doorway cradling at least two of the brown bags and smiling down at me like the cat that just ate the mouse, all Cheshire like.

I can feel my brows start to furrow, what did he burn this time? However I'm pleasantly surprised to find that he hasn't been attempting to cook dinner and instead the young girl from down the street, Jessica, I believe her name is, is now ushering the kids and their backpacks and sleeping bags back out onto the patio and collecting their boots with a warm smile for me and a nod for Gojyo and my sweet, darling, ever thoughtful, love has just given us the night off and I don't remember if I got my other shoe off before I glomped him in the doorway or not.

I don't really care anyways.

The night is spent reacquainting ourselves with each other's arms and legs and stomachs, scars and dimples, nipples and ears and toes and breath and maybe a massage in the tub for sore muscles and gentle petting strokes of the brush through ruby locks and then _finally_ getting a full night's sleep in, because when you become old sleep is _almost_ better than sex, especially when the kids are early risers. But just barely, because we're only kind of old people and Gojyo'd freak if I dared to tell him he was anything other than the 19 year old stud I first met way back at the beginning of our lives together.

So when the sun is already high up in the sky I smile into a gentle prodding of warm fingers slipping across my back. Relishing the feeling of those perfectly calloused fingers rubbing tight little circles over the smooth skin and partially crack a sleep heavy lid to gaze adoringly at the ever surprising man I've sworn myself to. He's smiling again and holding onto a tray full of strawberry waffles with whipped cream and strawberry milk and a small plate of bacon and somehow I can't help but match his pleased as punch expression as I pull myself up against the pillows and he slides the tray over my lap before slipping in next to me and stealing a piece of the smoky bacon before I can even take in everything.

There's a single pristine mini white calla lily standing in a small etched glass along with the food, but that's not what catches my attention. Sitting on the very edge of the tray is a neat little bundle tied up with string. At my questioning look he smiles and nods, holding the tray while I untie and look over the various, multi-colored papers. Some have stickers on them, some little stories, others are drawing or songs or hand prints and I can feel my shoulders start to shake. How could I have forgotten? It's been two years since we officially adopted the twins and spread out in front of me are all the pictures and childish scrawls they've ever drawn for us.

But my favorite is the big one on my lap. The one with two little red-heads and one big one all holding hands with messy handwriting that's only semi-legible, but the big red heart and the words, "We love you Daddy" are more than clear for me to read. And I love them even more for it.

Yes, I love them even more.

But if he takes one more piece of my bacon he's going to be wearing that whipped cream. He laughs at me and nuzzles in against my neck. Apparently we have time for that too. You know, I think maybe I could get use to the breakfast in bed thing.

I really could.

Fin.


End file.
